Can You Know?
by Andi Horton
Summary: Probably post ATY, though I read it over and realised it doesn't have to be. Nothing earth shattering, just Sydney's frustrated, slightly neurotic, early morning reflections on her life.


Can You Know?

O0O0O0O

Can you keep a secret?

Well, even if you can't, I think I'll tell you anyway. Because I have to tell somebody.

Ever feel like that? You need to tell somebody, or you'll burst? If not, count that among your blessings. You don't want to know what you're missing. And if you did know, you'd know you weren't missing anything.

I feel like that a lot. Actually, I feel like that all the time. I feel like that right now, and I've felt like it every day of my life since- well, I don't know since when. I just know I've felt it for a long, long time.

Time is so unreliable now. The days blur together, and I guess I should be glad I don't have some sort of identity crisis. Because that can happen, sometimes. I've heard stories of people who have just gone over the edge- when their handlers came to get them to report, they didn't have a clue who they - the handlers - were. They had started to live the life that they had been given, because it was so much simpler than the one that was really theirs.

Well, I can identify with that. And at least there are a few people who know who I really am. But that doesn't always make it easier.

Do you know that, sometimes, at night, when I'm in bed, I don't sleep at all? I dream instead. I dream that I'm - well - normal.

Keep dreaming, right?

Well, I will. Because sometimes I don't wonder if that's the only thing that keeps me alive. Or sane, anyway.

And sane is good.

Vaughn told me that, once. As if I hadn't known it already. But I appreciated him saying it all the same. It was a sort of confirmation for me, you know? And in a life like this, any sort of confirmation is like a breath of fresh air. It means at least one thing about your life wasn't a dream, or a lie, or an illusion. It was real.

And real is good.

Infrequent, perhaps, but good.

I don't know why, exactly, that I feel like it's a worthwhile risk to tell you all of this. If they find out I did, they'll kill you.

But before you judge them on that, try to realise where they're coming from. I mean, death might seem a pretty stiff penalty for loose lips, but once you know what those lips can betray, you can understand, if not agree, why death might be considered to be - well - doable. That doesn't mean I'm for it, of course, but it's how I try to look at it. Because I can't change it. Not yet, at least.

So for now, they'll kill anybody you tell about them, and that you're working for them. And I am, and I just told you that I am, so if they come and ask you a lot of questions, pretend you've never heard of me, okay? In fact, you should probably pretend that to begin with. "Sydney who?" is always a classic response.

But I guess Danny didn't know that.

Danny, by the way, was my fiancé.

Notice? 'Was'. Not 'is'. And not because we got married. And not because we broke it off.

Because somebody else broke it off for us. By killing him.

Somebody isn't just anybody, either. They're the people I work for, and they're called SD-6.

SD-6. It sounds like some experimental drug, doesn't it? Or a parking garage. But it's not. It stands for Section Disparu- the section that doesn't exist. But SD-6 does exist. Believe me. It's a very secret, very hush-hush, very real and deadly organization, the majority of whose employees think they're working for the government.

Well, they're, you know . . . not.

But don't blame them for not knowing. I didn't used to know, either, until- well, it's a long story, and I've only got all night, so we won't go there. But I found out. And now I'm a mole for SD-6, which is at least twice as dangerous as just working for them was. Probably more, but I want to be sure you don't think I'm exaggerating here, or anything, so I'm only going to say twice. At least.

My life was then made even more complicated (until then I hadn't thought it possible) by the addition of one more person to deal with. He is my handler, CIA agent Michael Vaughn. And, although some girls would argue he's more of an asset than one more thing to worry about, when you've got my life, you haven't time for guys like Michael Vaughn, and that makes it even worse than if you hadn't met him to begin with.

Because that boy is a chip off the good-looking block, and what I used to call (back when I was normal, and all) drool-worthy.

But of course any relationship between us, other than one that is strictly platonic, would mean leverage for our enemies. And I know, even without checking with him (which is good, because I don't think he'd appreciate me checking with him at three forty-two in the morning) that the last thing either of us wants is to get the other hurt.

Besides, if I started dating him, how do you think the guys at SD-6 are going to take it? Not very well. In fact, I think they'll take an Uzi, or something similar, and take him out. So let's leave Vaughn right where he is now - in really, really good (okay, best) friend territory - and go on to my father.

For a long time, Jack Bristow was as near as a total stranger to me as a total stranger, except I knew his name. And even that you sometimes had to wonder about. Because my father is very much like a cat- they both have their secrets, and neither one is telling. Recently, I've made about half a dozen life-shaking revelations, most, if not all, of them initiated by Daddy dearest.

For the greater part of my childhood he kept me at an arm's length, and that's if he was feeling affectionate. I was more often away from him than I was with him, and I thought it was because he didn't love me. I found out he lied about my mother, and my mother lied about herself even more than her husband before she supposedly died (more about that in a minute, I promise).

But, no matter how rotten he may have made growing up, I love my dad. I really do. Granted, I find it extremely hard to look him in the eye and not burst onto tears, but I love him. And I know he loves me, even though he tries to hide it since he considers me a weakness.

Actually, that part I can understand. How much more potent than a threat to your life is a threat to the life of a loved one? When you get into this business, you identify death as one of the many risks you are willing to take for The Cause. But nobody says anything about facing the death of another. I faced it with Danny- or I would have, if I'd been given the chance. He faced it alone, and all because of what I was stupid enough to tell him.

But Dad knows. He's been around long enough to know, and there's no way on Earth, in Heaven, or Hell, that he would be willing to sit back and watch me get killed. I know he hates it, because he feels that he isn't as strong as he ought to be, but I kind of like it. It's like there's hope for him yet. It's like, even though the past twenty-some years beg to differ, he really is my father after all.

Unlike my mother.

Oh, biologically, of course, she's my mother. Although really, if she weren't, I think I'd prefer that to what is fact.

Fact, in case you are wondering, is that my mother is KGB and never really loved my father- maybe not even me. Babies were only good to Russia as new recruits, and of course, you can't recruit the baby who's in America, thinking (if she was thinking anything at all) that life is pretty darn good, what with parents who loved her, and each other.

Yeah, right.

But at least my father loved me enough to be more or less present while I grew up. My mother didn't stick around too long at all.

Instead, she faked her own death and took off somewhere to do something with someone I don't think I know, and know that I don't want to. Good riddance, too, although for years - almost thirty - I thought the exact opposite. Now, it's like she was this horrible, evil person I don't even know.

Actually, it isn't just like that, it is that.

There are other people in my life- some of them think I'm normal, and some of them only know about parts of my abnormalities.

I have friends. They think I'm normal- or at least, as normal as anybody else is. Which is open for debate, but not here, okay?

I have a boss at SD-6. His name is Arvin Sloane. I have no idea what is mother was thinking, since with a name like Arvin, anybody could go wrong. Sloane sure did. He's evil, too.

Only, I've had more time to adjust to that fact than I've had to picture my mother in friendly conjunction with that adjective.

If I sound bitter, I'm sorry about that. I don't usually, I don't think. But sometimes, you just get so frustrated with the lies, and the near escapes, and the killing, and the accidents that aren't, really, and knowing things you wish you didn't, that you just- you want to burst.

And you have to tell somebody, or else you will burst.

It doesn't have to be somebody who understands- who knows what you're going through. How could it be? I mean, can you possibly understand what my life is like? Can you know what it is like to wake up at three o'clock in the morning after you have had yet another nightmare that everybody you love was killed because of your career choice? Can you know what it is like to, once you've remembered that it didn't happen after all (or at least, not yet) get down on your knees to thank God that you're still alive, and are your family and friends?

Because you might not be tomorrow morning.

The answer is, you can't. Not unless you've lived it.

So your audience doesn't have to be somebody who understands- who's lived it. It just has to be somebody who can understand your language (and there, I'm pretty flexible as well), and comprehend reasonably lucid sentences.

And they have to be able to listen.

Or, in this case, read.

That's all.

And it helps. Believe it or not, it helps a lot.

So thank you.

Thank you for being one of those people.

And good night.

O0O0O0O

Okay, I was lying awake very early one morning, and wondering what Sydney would be thinking if she were in my shoes. This is what came of it. I should, on reflection, probably have waited until I actually slept and woke up fresh the next morning to write it down, but I didn't. Reading this over I kind of think that my sleep deprivation shows. Sorry about that.

Not mine, okay? You know that, and I know that, but just to be safe- the characters etc. belong to ABC Touchtone, and were created by JJ Abrams Bad Robot Productions. The words themselves, however, are mine, as is the plot in general, so please respect it.

I am a normal, sane author and so enjoy feedback. I would also be flattered if it were to be archived anywhere, and all you have to do is just PM me and say 'Hey, guess what, I liked it, so you can also find it here' or something like that.

Um- have I forgotten anything? If so, e-mail me, and I'll revise it again. Otherwise, hope you liked it.


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